Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Draughts. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Draughts Quotes And Sayings by 90 Authors including George Henry Borrow,Kenneth Grahame,Norman Maccaig,Marcel Proust,Dharlene Marie Fahl for you to enjoy and share.
Sherry ... a silly, sickly compound, the use of which will transform a nation, however bold and warlike by nature, into a race of sketchers, scribblers, and punsters, in fact into what Englishmen are at the present day.
Hauled up our wine-casks, and hove them overboard, tied one to the other by a long line. Then the crew took to the boats and rowed shorewards, singing as they went, and drawing after them the long bobbing procession of casks, like
Scholars, I plead with you, Where are your dictionaries of the wind, the grasses?
Often the fairest impression that remains in our minds of a favourite air is one which has arisen out of a jumble of wrong notes struck by unskillful fingers upon a tuneless piano.
Clarity in my cup. Transparency of my soul. Lucidity of myself.
Elixir of the ages. Tea makes us all sages.
A Waft of Cheese
The winds with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kisst.
Wafted by a favouring gale
As one sometimes is in trances,
To a height that few can scale,
Save by long and weary dances
Fall the deep curtains,
delicate the weave,
fair the thread.
What, nephew, said the king, is the wind in that door?
Door VIII. A Hand at Cards IX. The Game Made X. The Substance of the Shadow
wankers snorting
Straw shows which way the wind is blowing.
Words and feathers the wind carries away.
'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!
Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying, In sweetness, not in music, dying.
Beer ... a high and mighty liquor.
Dreams drawn from the sheath.
Sailors on a becalmed sea, we sense the stirring of a breeze.
Come athwart my hawse and I shall ride you down, you half-baked son of an Egyptian fart,' to a wool-gathering jolly-boat; and art echoed from either shore.
cosine wherry, a wooden rowboat hand
flaxen mane and tail. The Black Forest horses had a draft-like
Jolly boating weather,
And a hay harvest breeze,
Blade on the feather,
Shade off the trees.
What if in Scotland's wilds we viel'd our head, Where tempests whistle round the sordid bed; Where the rug's two-fold use we might display, By night a blanket, and a plaid by day.
A little rain beats down a big wind. Long drinking bouts break open the tun(der).
Wind likes to open the curtains; wisdom likes to open the curtains!
Pipes filled with brine that spied on the inhabitants of buildings watching, listening, hunting. You might obscure the attention of the Londonmancers, with the complicity of a treacherous borough, with strikebreaking hexes strong enough: but nothing could stay hidden from an inquisitive sea.
A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.
Words are as beautiful as wind horses, and sometimes as difficult to corral.
Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire,
And airy tongues that syllable men's names.
"What is your best, your very best, ale a glass?" "Two pence halfpenny," says the landlord, "is the price of the Genuine Stunning Ale." "Then," says I, producing the money, "just draw me a glass of the Genuine Stunning, if you please, with a good head on it."
bowls of cornflakes,
Tea - the cups that cheer but not inebriate.
Certes, they been lye to hounds, for an hound when he cometh by the roses, or by other bushes, though he may nat pisse, yet wole he heve up his leg and make a countenance to pisse.
But the wind playing in the reeds and rushes and osiers.
Instead of water we got here a draught of beer, a lumberer's drink, which would acclimate and naturalize a man at once,-which would make him see green, and, if he slept, dream that he heard the wind sough among the pines.
I take my metal canister of tea off the shelf. It is my own mixture of dried lavender blossoms and lemon balm, harvested from my garden and hung in the storeroom to dry. Weed helped me hang these stalks, I think. His hands touched these tender leaves, just as they touch me.
By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung.
Whate'er the talents, or howe'er designed, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind.
What two ideas are more inseparable than beer and Britannia?
Horses: dangerous on both ends and crafty in the middle
If the wind doesn't blow...row
The air is like a draught of wine.
The undertaker cleans his sign,
The Hull express goes off the line,
When it's raspberry time in Runcorn.
Teas, Where small talk dies in agonies.
Bring me a wheel of oaken wood A rein of polished leather A Heavy Horse and a tumbling sky Brewing heavy weather.
My heart pumps yet the poison draught of you.
The Springboard. Denning
Wretched game, cricket, keeping romantic youths out in the sun when they should be indoors, applying balm to the foreheads of feverish young maidens.
Keelhaul the poets in the vestry chairs.
Ale is meat, drink and cloth; it will make a cat speak and a wise man dumb.
Gin and drugs, dear lady, gin and drugs.
dozing on horseback
smoke form the tea-fires
drifts to the moon
Wit, wit! - I look upon it always as a draught of air; it cools indeed, but one gets a stiff neck from it.
Words to deeds cold breath gives.
Some syllables are swords.
Cheap matter offered they to boyish wit,
Sherry, the civilized drink.
We wail, batten, sport, clip, clasp, sunder, dwindle, die:
Blowing,Blowing
The gray slabs
Will lose you
the winds will flick you away
In a whiff
Out of some subway scuttle, cell or loft
A bedlamite speeds to thy parapets,
Tilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning,
A jest falls from the speechless caravan.
The scullery roof had sprung a leak: she put down a bowl to catch the drips, but the rainwater spread and darkened, to make treasure maps and Whistler nocturnes of the walls and ceiling.
Weaving olden dances; mingling hands and mingling glances.
Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.
What we call the Irish Brogue is no sooner discovered, than it makes the deliverer, in the last degree, ridiculous and despised; and, from such a mouth, an Englishman expects nothing but bulls, blunders, and follies.
From sunny woof and cloudy weft Fell rain in sheets; so, to myself I hummed these hazard rhymes, and left The learned volume on the shelf.
Midnight shout and revelry, Tipsy dance and jollity.
Nowhere is the English genius of domesticity more notably evident than in the festival of afternoon tea. The [ ... ] chink of cups and the saucers tunes the mind to happy repose.
In the deep shadow of the porch
A slender bind-weed springs,
And climbs, like airy acrobat,
The trellises, and swings
And dances in the golden sun
In fairy loops and rings.
Anticipation is a bad sleeping draught.
Trees quiver in the wind,
sailing on a sea of mist
out of earshot.
Concentration, the suspension of time, an unobtrusive wit.
Some questions cannot be answered. They become familiar weights in the hand, round stones pulled from the pocket, unyielding and cool.
Sometimes it is given to us. One moment of clarity. One word laid down, cold and clattering, beside another. Ribbon of wet stone.
Flamingo necks, peacock brains, pike livers, lark tongues, sow's udders, elephant trunks and ears extravagantly frilled with parsley.
There is something about gin, the tang in it of the deep wildwood, perhaps, that always makes me think of twilight and mists and dead maidens. Tonight it tinkled in my mouth like secret laughter.
Raw, gentle, and easy, it mizzled out of the high air, a special elixir, tasting of spells and stars and air, carrying a peppery dust in it, and moving like a rare light sherry on his tongue. Rain.
Health, south wind, books, old trees, a boat, a friend.
Now the great winds shoreward blow Now the salt tides seaward flow Now the wild white horses play Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Riding upon the back of a waterhorse - what mortal had ever stayed in such a seat for so long? On a horse made of cold currents and liquid convergences, jests and trickery - pressed against a hide like the burnished sea of midnight, thing look different to the rider.
Drawing is one of those things which sit on the uneasy bending line between instinct and instruction, where seeming perversity eventually trumps pleasure as the card players and the kibitzers interact and new thrills are sought.
As tae the rest o' ye, tak guard around yon stones. And if they come in force, show them what the Feegles can dae!"
Daft Wullie said, "I can play the harmonica.
The windy satisfaction of the tongue.
Destriers began to perish of exhaustion and exposure. "What is a knight without a horse?" men riddled. "A snowman with a sword.
fierce tea making
in time of war,
Gallimaufry of ices and trifles and toasts, supervised
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot.
One wit, like a knuckle of ham in soup, gives a zest and flavour to the dish, but more than one serves only to spoil the pottage.
How it pours, pours, pours,
In a never-ending sheet!
How it drives beneath the doors!
How it soaks the passer's feet!
How it rattles on the shutter!
How it rumples up the lawn!
How 'twill sigh, and moan, and mutter,
From darkness until dawn.
Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies, Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies; The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare, And shed their substance on the floating air.
Whether the darken'd room to muse invite, Or whiten'd wall provoke the skew'r to write; In durance, exile, Bedlam, or the Mint, Like Lee or Budgel I will rhyme and print.
The reeds give
way to the
wind and give
the wind away
Walls wrought of time and stone and magic.
Him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary
Wind is the loving Wooer of waters; Wind blends together Billows all-foaming. Spirit of man, Thou art like unto water! Fortune of man, Thou art like unto wind!
He says tools but somebody will mention the cutting edges of things and one will see billhook, scythe, fauchard, debris, wood chips and sketches all entangled like words in summertime, when crickets and corn, lives and vines, sunflowers and stormy hours touch and quench one another.
As it began, rain ended quickly in Yorkshire. There was no gradual waning of water, no silent mist to ease the way from heavy drops to dry skies. Instead, there was a simple change, like the snuffing of a candle. One moment, there was pounding rain, and the next ... silence.
The choking, sweltering, deadly, and killing rule of no rule; the consecration of cupidity and braying of folly, and dim stupidity and baseness, in most of the affairs of men. Slopshirts attainable three-halfpence cheaper by the ruin of living bodies and immortal souls.
Corn is cleaned with wind, and the Soul with chastening
ON PROBLEMS
Our choicest plans
have fallen through,
our airiest castles
tumbled over,
because of lines
we neatly drew
and later neatly
stumbled over.
When suddenly across the June a wind with fingers goes.